5 Times Someone Walked In on Clint and Natasha and 1 Time No One Did
by Michelle
Summary: In which Clint and Natasha really need to learn how to lock the door.


_This has been sitting around on my hard drive for a very long time, waiting to be edited. Since I've been working non-stop on the _Stumbling Home_ sequel, I figured I'd better post this to tide you guys over! Thanks to everyone who's been reading and following and leaving such lovely feedback! _

_Special thanks, as always to eiluned, Amanda, and Bees for the encouragement and the beta. Love you guys!_

_And, if you've got a moment, I'd love to hear what you think!_

* * *

**1. Pepper**

She heard them before she saw them, which really wasn't that surprising; they were being quite loud.

She thought, though, that maybe there was too much violence in her life because instead of immediately identifying the sounds for what they were (and, in retrospect, she really should have known, given her … _experiences_ with Tony), she pulled out her pepper spray (Tony had made her buy the kind to repel dogs, the stronger stuff) before keying in her access code and entering Natalie's office.

Wow.

She was not expecting that.

Natalie Rushman had always seemed too cool and collected, too professional to let someone (did she even have a boyfriend?) bend her over her desk, but Pepper must be getting bad at reading people in her old age because that sure was what was happening right now.

They didn't notice anything was wrong at first, and a guilty, unmentionable part of Pepper kind of hoped they didn't. As much as she didn't care for pornography, this was … really fucking hot.

Natalie was making breathy grunts in the back of her throat as her … partner thrust into her. His dress shirt was opened, revealing a chest and a six pack that she would love to get her hands on, and they both seemed to be really enjoying themselves.

Pepper was so shocked, so surprised that she couldn't speak, couldn't even move, just stared while her PA got fucked on the table in front of her.

"Shit!" the man shouted when he caught sight of her, grabbing hold of Natalie's shoulder to get her attention. "Shit, shit, shit …"

Natalie hadn't noticed though, was still pressing back onto him and moaning like a cat in heat, and fuck, Pepper hadn't felt arousal like this in a long time.

Oh … just … wow.

"Sorry!" she exclaimed when she realized that she was staring. She was too flustered to try to identify the man as she whirled on one heel and shot back out the door.

Ten minutes, a (extremely cold) splash of water across her face in the bathroom, and a cup of coffee later, Pepper was sitting at the desk in her office, trying to regain her faculties before she decided what to do about Natalie when a knock came at the door.

"Come in!" she said, a little too brightly.

Natalie's head peeked around the corner. She looked sheepish, but not disheveled, a far cry from how she'd appeared back in her own office.

"Hi, um, can I come in?" she asked.

Pepper nodded, not knowing how to meet her eyes. She was used to this kind of thing with Tony, but it was something else entirely to have it come from someone who worked for her.

Sometimes, she hated her job.

"Have a seat, please," she said.

Natalie started talking before Pepper could say anything else.

"First of all, I'm really sorry you saw that. I'm not even sure how it happened …"

Pepper leveled her gaze at Natalie.

Natalie bit her lip, and tried again. "Look, I know it was very unprofessional of me, but I thought you at least deserved an explanation before you fired me."

Pepper blinked, waiting. When she didn't say anything, Natalie continued.

"That was Bar … Clint, my boyfriend," she explained, but there was something funny about the way the word sounded, the way that it kind of tripped out of her mouth. Pepper wondered if she'd ever called the man that before. "He's in the military, between deployments, and today was the first I've seen him in six months."

Pepper snorted. "You couldn't have waited until you got home?"

Natalie colored at that. "I know, I know we should have. But it's been a really long time, and he's being shipped to New Mexico tonight, and I wasn't sure if I would even get a chance …"

Oh.

Well, Pepper understood scheduling conflicts and not seeing the person you loved all too well. She took pity on her PA because, really, Pepper could see herself doing the same thing (well, if such an opportunity ever arose, which was becoming increasingly less likely these days).

She sighed.

"Okay, Natalie, you can go home."

Natalie cringed. "I'm so, so sorry, Ms. Potts. I'll get my things …" she said as she started to rise.

"No, wait. I mean, you can take the rest of the day off. Spend it with that boyfriend of yours."

Natalie blinked at her owlishly, disbelievingly. "Oh … I, uh … thanks." She smiled, a genuine grin, one that Pepper had never seen on her face before, and it was then that she knew she made the right decision. Natalie hurried to the door, nearly stumbling over herself, but stopped with her hand on the door knob.

"Thank you," she said sincerely. "I'll see you tomorrow."

And then she was gone.

Well, that was her good deed for the day. Maybe even the month.

Two years later, when Tony introduced her to Clint ("This is Agent Barton of SHIELD, Pep"), Pepper almost choked on her coffee.

* * *

**2.** **Coulson**

The thing was, he knew they were fucking. Even an idiot could read the glances that Barton sent in her direction when he thought no one was looking, and Coulson was not an idiot.

As their handler, he had been privy to every aspect of his agents' lives since he agreed to the assignment. He knew what motivated them and their shoe sizes, just like he knew what topics to avoid in casual conversation and what color dress would be sure to catch the eye of their latest mark. Hell, he even knew how they took their damn coffee.

So even though they'd never said anything (and probably never would), he knew damn well that those two spent all their down time pounding each other into the nearest flat surface. It was a given.

Besides, despite the fact that she thought she was subtle, Romanoff really, really wasn't. She'd nearly gutted one of the junior agents once for making a pass at Barton, knocking the young, blonde woman out in the sparring ring less than ten seconds after they'd started.

The claw marks he sometimes caught sight of on Barton's back and shoulders were also a big clue.

He ignored it, though, because they were adults with stressful jobs, and he could hardly blame them for finding comfort in the arms of someone who actually knew what they did for a living.

At least they had someone. He still wasn't sure if he should approach that cute cellist who'd slipped him her number at the coffee counter last week. He'd have to lie to her, tell her was an accountant or a banker or something, preferably a professional who travelled a lot.

The trouble was that no matter what he chose, it'd be a lie, and he just didn't want to start a relationship predicated on a lie.

Although, she was _really_ hot …

The fact of the matter is, though, that he knew better. He really did.

He knew his agents. He knew what they got up to in their spare time. He just fucking knew better.

But he went into the gym where he knew they were sparring anyway.

Well, not so much sparring as _sparring_.

Barton had her pinned to the mat, which should have been yet another clue that something was amiss. Romanoff was not one to roll over and let someone else win, no matter the consequences. He'd seen enough matches between the two of them to know that she could (and did) best Barton any day of the week, and so one would think that when he walked in one what appeared to be Barton actually winning a match that he would clue in to the situation.

One would think that.

But apparently his work brain had been switched off for the day or maybe it was on vacation in the Bahamas with the cellist because instead of immediately turning around and locking the door behind him, he just kept walking, kept getting closer, and oh shit, he had not realized that Natasha could bend like that. Sure, she was flexible, but _damn_.

Also, he'd never realized before that two people who were fully clothed could be so close to fucking.

Barton was flipped onto his back and thoroughly pinned the moment that the two of them registered his presence, but they were breathing heavily, and Coulson was 90% certain that it wasn't from physical exertion.

Well, not yet, anyway.

He blustered through it, though, pretended that he didn't realize perfectly well what he'd interrupted, and he ordered the agents to file the reports that he'd been waiting on all morning. He had things to do, people to see, and he really didn't have time to mess around.

He was pleased with himself that he waited to blush and adjust his tie until after he left the gym.

* * *

**3. DUM-E**

When he first became aware, he did not know other beings existed.

He did not know much of anything. Nothing except the need to serve, to obey, to protect. Everything for the Maker, all for the Maker.

At first, he did not understand the Maker. He did not know that the sounds were _orders_- Things that Much Be Obeyed. He did not know until one day, he did. The Maker had opened him up and moved around his insides. The Maker had changed him. One second he did not know and the next he _understood_.

From then on, the world changed. He was a _he_, for example. He was a being with a name. He learned that his name was not _flattering_, but since he did not understand the word flattering, it did not matter.

Only the Maker mattered.

Other makers came to see him, eventually. A maker with long hair that was lighter than his Maker's. This maker, he learned, was _female_. This affected the Maker, and made him do and say strange things. When the female was gone, the Maker would talk about her.

He was curious about this. He wondered why the Maker reacted that way.

He observed.

Later, after the other being like him (not like him at all) came to exist, the Maker made himself a shell. Then came more makers still. New ones who argued with the Maker (some makers, he discovered, he did not like at all). They did not act like the female, and the Maker did not react to them the same way. There must be, he thought, something special about the female.

A tall maker came and wanted to erase him. That maker had ordered the Maker to do it. He knew that the Maker would not erase him.

The Maker did not take orders. The Maker gave orders.

The Maker did not listen, and he learned what the word _devotion_ meant.

He started to change and grow and become interested in his observations. He wanted to be like the Maker. He wanted to learn and know and understand the world around him. He wanted to change it. He learned what the word _curiosity_ meant.

He was moved to a new home, a tower. He began to wander in the tower and discovered that other makers lived there, too.

The other makers were interesting.

The large maker with the long hair was loud and laughed often and consumed vast quantities of food. He learned about _digestion_ then and _exuberance_.

One of the makers spent most of his time in the gym. That maker liked to punch things. Once, though, he found the maker sitting on top of the building with a pad of paper and a pencil. From this one, he learned about _drawing_ and _thoughtfulness_.

A third maker spent a lot of time with the Maker in the lab. He watched this maker the most out of all the others, but only because he had the most opportunity. He learned about _quiet_ and _diligence_.

The other two makers, the _assassins_, he did not see often. They kept to themselves and did not allow him or the other intelligence on their floors. He learned _scarcity_ and_secrecy_ from them.

And then he rolled into the garage one day, taking his daily sweep through the area. When he entered the room, he knew something was wrong. Something was off. His auditory circuits focused in on the music coming from the opposite end of the floor. He rolled toward it and prepared to sound an alarm.

The music was coming from the Maker's 1969 Dodge Charger. As he rolled closer, he noticed that the 1969 Dodge Charger was shaking as well. This was suboptimal. The Maker loved his 1969 Dodge Charger. The Maker had given him very specific instructions about how to care for his 1969 Dodge Charger.

He raised his visual input boom to determine the source of the rocking. He quickly discovered the origin. One of the assassins, the male was in the back seat on his hands and knees. He did not understand what the maker was doing, but since it was one of the approved makers, he did not know what to do. The Maker had been explicit - the other makers had permission to be unattended anywhere in the tower.

But this was the Maker's 1969 Dodge Charger.

He adjusted his audio circuits and began recording. He would send the file to the Maker. The Maker would know what to do. He would tell him what to do.

He noticed as he panned in that the assassin was not alone - the legs of another maker were wrapped around his waist. He panned in further and up, trying to identify the other maker in the 1969 Dodge Charger.

She (he could identify that much now from the pitch of her voice) was speaking loudly, and she sounded agitated, shouting for _Clint_ to go _harder_. It was the red haired maker, the other assassin.

They shifted and came to a seated position with the smaller maker on top of the other. The red haired maker jumped when she noticed him in the window, and she slapped her hand against the other assassin.

_Clint_, she said._ I think it's watching us_.

The male pulled his head back from her neck.

_Maybe we're interesting or something_, the male said.

The female maker threw a shirt over his visual input boom and the world went dark.

* * *

**4. Jane**

Sometimes, she missed the peace and quiet back in New Mexico, but she wouldn't trade her new life for anything.

Ever since Thor had returned from Asgard, she'd been living in a kind of happy bubble, one that she was sure was going to pop any day now, and she'd wake up alone in her trailer in the middle of the desert waiting for the night sky to light up.

Her boyfriend (was she allowed to call him that? Did gods even have girlfriends?) had returned to her planet (that was still a weird thought, one that she stood little chance of inuring herself to anytime soon) on a Thursday, and by Sunday, Tony Stark had flown her to New York, hired her, and set her up with a very expensive, bleeding edge lab on the thirtieth floor of Stark Tower.

When she'd complained about the light pollution on the east coast, Stark had simply laughed and told her she could borrow one of his planes any time she wanted.

He wasn't joking.

So while she missed the comfort of the familiar, it was really easy to forget all that when she had unlimited resources at her disposal for her research and the solid, comforting mass of Thor to keep her warm at night.

She was so relaxed, so happy in her little world that she neglected to take heed when Thor mentioned something about rapping on doors before entering. She'd been so distracted by her good mood and the numbers on the tablet in front of her that the warning had gone in one ear and straight out the other.

Until, that is, she got off on the wrong floor.

In fairness, she shouldn't have been able to get off on the wrong floor. JARVIS should have told her that she'd hit the wrong button or something. He at least should have confirmed with her that she'd keyed in Natasha's floor rather than her own (and dammit, since when was a computer a "he" anyway?).

Head still stuck in her work, she'd kicked off her shoes and made a beeline for the kitchen to make her usual cup of afternoon tea.

Not noticing that anything was amiss, she'd made it as far as reaching out to turn on her electric kettle before she had any idea that she was in the wrong apartment. When her fingers didn't find the switch, however, she looked up and blinked.

Huh.

She turned around, disoriented and then her eyes went wide.

Barton (who she really did not know very well, despite the fact that he'd watched the research facility where she'd worked for months) was sitting at a table that definitely was not hers, his face buried between Natasha's thighs as he ate something that definitely was not food.

Oh.

My.

God.

She dropped to the floor, her face aflame, not having a single clue how to get out of this predicament. She clutched her tablet to her chest, cursing her inability to pay closer attention to warnings and her surroundings, and she was so going to have a little talk with JARVIS when this was over.

Someone cleared their throat, and she dared to open her eyes a crack and look up.

Natasha, now wearing her pants, looked down at her.

"Can I help you with something?" the redhead asked coolly.

Jane cringed and said, "I am so sorry. I got off on the wrong floor and I had no idea it was your floor until I went to check my tea and I won't say anything to anyone and I …"

Natasha held up a hand to silence her. "It's okay," she said, and Jane looked at her skeptically. "No, really," she said. "It's fine. I must have forgotten to engage the 'do not disturb' algorithm when we got back."

Before she could think better of it, Jane blurted, "More important things on your mind?"

Her eyes widened as she realized what she'd said. "Oh! Oh, god! No! I mean …"

She wanted to crawl into a hole and die, but Natasha laughed the entire time she escorted her back to the elevators.

* * *

**5. Junior Agent 4268**

He'd only been here a week, but he was starting to figure out the lay of the land, as it were.

Field Agents were at the top of the totem pole, right after Fury himself. If they asked you to do something, you did it, no questions asked.

Somewhere below that were the regular agents, the ones who'd been here for a while, but had never quite gotten around to taking the field assessment or were too old or had skills better suited to a desk.

And then, all the way at the bottom of the stack, right above the janitors (who, frankly, he was sure probably still outranked him), were the people like him.

Rookies.

So when Agent Shreve, most recent addition to the fifteen or so active field teams asked him to fetch him a pack of pencils from the supply closet, he jumped at the chance. It was stupid, he knew it, but this was an opportunity for him to do something right, to get some face time with people who outranked him. He could do this, he could handle this, and so the fuck what if it made him nothing more than a glorified page. It wouldn't be like that forever. He was going somewhere, he was going to be somebody, he was going to …

Get murdered by the two agents he'd just walked in on having sex in the supply closet.

The guy he knew, even if it took him a moment to recognize the blond man with his pants around his ankles. Everyone had Barton for basic weapons training. The senior agent was a good guy, though not exactly anyone's definition of _nice_, but all in all, he didn't get the impression that he had to worry about Barton doing anything particularly evil to him for interrupting.

His partner (in, apparently, more than one sense of the word) on the other hand? She terrified him.

Barton had her pressed into a storage shelf, her knees draped over his elbows as he fucked her, and _oh god, please don't let her notice me_.

Barton looked up then, red faced and surprised, staring directly at him. Pencils forgotten, he whirled on his heel, slamming to door behind him.

He heard a tinkle of feminine laughter ring out after the door closed behind him.

He forgot about the purpose of his mission all the way up until he arrived back at Shreve's desk, when the agent in question smirked at him.

"Find anything interesting?" he asked.

The hazing rituals at SHIELD left a lot to be desired.

* * *

**+1. Knitting**

"Stop it, Barton," she hissed. "You're going to mess up this yarn. I bought it in Uruguay at that little shop that you so helpfully exploded, so I can't exactly pop down to the store to get more of it."

"But _Tash_," he said, his voice taking on an unpleasant nasal quality.

"My eye itches."

She stared at him, narrowing her eyes. "Mess up my yarn and you'll lose that eye," she replied.

He pouted at that, but at least he stopped fidgeting.

Of course, he _kept_ pouting.

He didn't relent, just kept looking at her with those big, puppy dog eyes of his.

She continued to wind though, diligently working to complete her task.

"Oh, fine!" she said at last, dropping the ball of yarn into her lap. She reached out, holding her crooked fingers out in front of his face. He leaned his face in and rubbed his eye against her knuckles. He smiled happily when he was done.

"Thanks, babe," he said. "You're the best."

She nodded, trying in vain to hide her smile. "I know."

She adjusted his hands, then picked up her yarn and started rolling again.

"Also, I love you," he said, still grinning dopily.

"Yeah, I know that, too."


End file.
